


EnCounters 4: Countermeasures

by MizJoely



Series: EnCounters [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final installment in the EnCounters series. Moriarty has Molly and her unborn child. Can Sherlock find them in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

_Countermeasures: A measure or action taken to counter or offset another one_

The flat was ridiculously easy to find in the end.

As promised, Molly was there.

Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat as he took in the scene before him: Molly, lying on the white carpet, eyes closed, skin nearly as pale as the surface beneath her body, a thick tide of blood pouring pouring pouring from between her legs. Her breathing, shallow, her pulse ( _when had he moved, when had he dropped to his knees and grasped her delicate wrist in his shaking fingers?_ ) thready, uneven. With one hand he automatically dialed the emergency number, giving the operator the pertinent information in cold, clipped tones that belied the frantic racing of his mind, the thundering of his heart in his chest.

Molly was haemorrhaging. Molly was haemorrhaging because she'd given birth, although the baby was nowhere to be seen.

Molly was going to die if the ambulance didn't arrive here very very soon, and it was all his fault.

 

_Twenty-Four Hours Earlier_

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”

John Watson made each word of the profanity a separate sentence as he stared at the man who had just risen to his feet and turned to face him.

They were in Greg Lestrade's Scotland Yard office, with the Detective Inspector still seated behind his desk, looking as dazed – as flat out stunned – as John currently felt.

“Yeah. I said the same thing,” Lestrade muttered, running a hand over his close-cropped graying hair and shaking his head at the same time. “Sherlock bloody Holmes, alive and well and in my office, telling me I shouldn't bother arresting him or even punching him cause he's not important enough to waste time on right now.”

“I'm not.” That was the man himself. Sherlock bloody Holmes, as Greg had just put it. Staring right back at John Watson as he groped behind himself for a chair and half-fell into it. “I'm sorry for the abruptness of my return to the world of the living, John, I'm sure this must be something of a shock...”

“That's – that's one way to put it, yeah,” John muttered in agreement as he took in his not-dead friend's form, drank in the sight of him and started to grin. He wasn't dead. His best friend wasn't dead, hadn't killed himself...wait, how? How had he...

“I'll explain later, John, but as I was just telling the Detective Inspector,” he turned his head to glare at the other man, “Molly's been kidnapped by Moriarty.”

He showed the two men the photo of Molly he’d been sent as well as the taunting message, and John felt his guts clench at the thought of sweet Molly and little unborn “Hamish” in the hands of the madman who’d convinced Sherlock the only way he could save his friends was to jump off the roof of St. Bart’s.

That same institution, as it turned out, was where Molly had been kidnapped during the middle of one of her shifts. 

Things went by in a bit of a blur after Sherlock showed them the photo and text; phone calls were made, Mycroft Holmes put in an appearance along with his madly-texting assistant – although at least “Anthea” appeared to show some genuine distress at being told of Molly’s kidnapping.

During the eight months that Sherlock had been “dead” a great deal of his reputation had been restored as bits and pieces of Moriarty’s criminal empire had “mysteriously” crumbled. He’d been cleared of the kidnapping and fraud charges (not that John had believed for even one moment that they’d been true, he’d certainly never believed what Sherlock told him as he fell from the roof that horrible day) but still had an outstanding warrant out for resisting arrest and taking a hostage. John had long since refused to press charges, and somehow Mycroft managed, in one afternoon, to make any other legal problems his brother faced vanish.

Not that John was ready to forgive the elder Holmes for playing right into Moriarty’s hands and landing Sherlock in this mess in the first place; only the fact that Molly and the baby were in danger kept him from punching Mycroft square in the nose as soon as he caught sight of him.

“Finding Molly and the baby is more important than taking our anger out on my brother.” Sherlock’s voice – Christ, when did he become the voice of reason? – was low and intense as he stood by John’s side.

John did a double take as he realized what Sherlock had just said – “our” anger rather than “your” anger. Had he learned that Mycroft was at least partially responsible for Moriarty’s elaborate set-up, how well he’d been able to play them all? Or had the other man owned up to what he’d done? Either way, it was good to know John wasn’t hiding anything from his friend. He’d never been one for tit for tat, and just because Sherlock had hidden so much from him didn’t mean he had any desire to retaliate.

And of course he was right. Finding Molly was the priority. Molly and little “Hamish,” so close to being born now that the trauma of being kidnapped could very well precipitate early labor. He hesitated to bring that subject out into the open; Sherlock already had enough to deal with, even though the threat of arrest and incarceration was no longer hanging over his head.

Although he knew his concern and distress must be as easy for Sherlock to deduce as the color of his hair, he was grateful that the other man for once didn't try to figure out why John felt that way, beyond the obvious. But then, he was busy barking orders at Sergeant Donovan and the uniformed officers that had been assigned to assist them in their desperate search for Molly.

It was the first time he'd ever spent more than five minutes in Sally Donovan's presence where she didn't refer to Sherlock as “freak” or give him the stinkeye. Come to think of it, Sherlock hadn't so much as commented on the fact that she was now wearing a wedding ring. Either the world had ended or detente had been called in face of the current crisis. Or a new leaf had been turned over? 

Again, something not worth bothering with, although John could hardly stop his mind from wandering since there was quite literally nothing he could do to help track Molly down. Sherlock was sitting at a laptop now, that fiercely intent look of concentration on his face that John had missed for the past eight months, the look that meant Sherlock was focused, on the case, and not going to allow anything to stand in the way of him finding the truth.

Of finding Molly and the baby.

John held fast to the thought that the madman actually seemed to _wan_ them to be found, if the text he'd sent Sherlock was anything to go by.

As the hours passed, he held tight to that hope.

He was dozing in a chair with his feet up on a low table littered with the remains of Chinese take-away when the sound of a door slamming jarred him awake. He looked around blearily, fumbling for his mobile; what time was it? Two in the morning, or just after, and had someone entered or left the room?

Entered, apparently. Sherlock was by his side, tugging impatiently at him. “Get up, John,” he said tersely. “I've found her.”


	2. Wrong Man, Wrong Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Nocturnias for inspiring Molly's rating by Moriarty. Thanks, ma'am!

_The Present_

As soon as he'd gotten off the line with emergency services, before he could do more than end the call, Sherlock's mobile rang. With a feeling of dread he lifted the small device to his ear and said, “Yes?”

The taunting voice coming from his phone was chillingly familiar. “I said find _her_ , Sherlock. Not find _them_.” Then there was laughter, mad, high-pitched, and the sound of a very very new baby squalling in the background.

Jim Moriarty had their son.

John, who had fallen behind and accidentally ended up on the wrong floor when he lost Sherlock in the maze-like interior of the designer block of flats, burst into the room at that moment. He took in the sight of Sherlock's face, frozen into an expression of blackest rage, then dismissed him entirely as he saw Molly lying on the floor. “Did you call the fucking paramedics?” he shouted as he raced to her side, already pulling his jacket off in order to use it as a stopgap measure, to try and keep her from losing any more blood than she already had.

Sherlock shouted a terse “They're on their way!” before returning his attention to the man on the other end of the phone. There was nothing he could do for Molly right now; he had to focus on saving their son from whatever insane game Moriarty intended to use him for. Sherlock's eyes never left the two figures across the room as he growled into the phone: “If you harm one hair on his head, I can assure you, you won't live long enough to grow bored again.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. I'm saving you Sherlock, keeping you from sinking into a life of boring domesticity with Miss Mouse – oh, sorry, _Doctor_ Mouse,” Moriarty corrected himself, the sneer obvious even if Sherlock hadn't had a well-trained ear for sarcasm. “Just think, if I'd allowed you to find them both, you'd have settled down together, living the life we both know you'd start to despise within a year – less than that, I'd bet, if I were a betting man. This way, you have a built-in excuse to cut the pathetic pathologist loose at your earliest convenience.”

“Fine words from the man who ensured Molly’s pregnancy in the first place,” Sherlock snarled in return. 

His words were met with a heavy silence, then: “How did you…oh. That little sneak.”

“Yes,” Sherlock bit out, feeling a savage sort of triumph at having caught Moriarty by surprise for once. “We found your little specimen jar, clever of Molly to jam it under the counter like that…I imagine you were a bit put out with her when you found she’d hidden it from you, weren’t you? Annoyed that she’d gone off script?”

“Well, she'd hardly have been worth our attention in the first place if she was as stupidly ordinary as the rest of the cattle,” Moriarty retorted, sneer once again firmly in place. “I'll give her a Plus One on the rating scale for being clever enough to think of that. And here I thought she'd been her usual clumsy self and dropped it outside somewhere.”

“You mean you believed her when she told you that was what she'd done,” Sherlock immediately corrected the other man. “What's wrong, _dear Jim_?” he asked with his own sneer. “Slipping up in your old, undead age?”

The sound of sirens wailing in the background caught his attention, just as Moriarty let loose a very colorful string of curses that were swiftly cut off as the phone went dead. The siren noises, however, remained, growing louder and louder as the ambulance John had summoned neared the building.

The ambulance crew must have been in the vicinity to have arrived so swiftly, even taking into account the urgency of the call that had been placed. Which meant that the sirens he'd heard over the mobile were the same...which meant that Moriarty was somewhere nearby.

He'd made two careless mistakes; one that merely explained how Molly's implant had been removed, and the other....

“John, he's here, he's not far from here,” Sherlock said tersely. “Stay with Molly, I'll leave the door open so the ambulance crew knows where to go.” He was already in motion, whirling and racing for the door, the last words shouted over his shoulder.

He heard John's garbled response, and was grateful, with the part of his mind not currently engaged in figuring where, exactly, Moriarty and his son were located, that John had sounded understanding rather than chastising; he'd half-expected an argument about leaving Molly in such dire straits. Thankfully his friend seemed to understand that Molly herself would demand that Sherlock retrieve their son if she were conscious and able to speak.

He raced down the stairs from the second-floor flat, not wanting to delay the emergency team by using one of the two lifts. His mind was racing even faster than his legs as he arrived on the ground floor, shoved open the door...

...and found himself face to face with the second deadliest man in England, Moriarty's lieutenant and chosen assassin.

Sebastian Moran.

He grinned nastily as he aimed the gun at Sherlock's chest. “Hello, Mr. Holmes. Jimmy thought the sound of the ambulance would bring you scrambling. Come along quietly and maybe he'll let you live long enough to meet your son, eh?”

Knowing he had no other choice, inwardly seething at once again being out-maneuvered by Moriarty, Sherlock schooled his face to impassivity, shrugged his shoulders and did as the other man asked, following him to a nondescript mid-sized car parked around the corner – strategically hidden from view of the ambulance and emergency crew, most of whom had no doubt already entered the building through the main entrance.

Whatever happened next, at least Molly and John were well out of it. 

He refused to speculate as to either Molly or his son's condition when this game played itself out, forcing himself to focus, to concentrate his considerable mental facilities on the situation at hand. He would serve them best not by worrying or fretting over them, but by remaining calm and doing what he did best: analyzing and finding the way to turn the situation to his advantage.

With stakes this high, Moriarty was about to find out he'd fucked with the wrong man at entirely the wrong time.


	3. Holding the Baby

The building Moran escorted him to was less than six blocks from where he'd found Molly, on the opposite side of the street. This upscale neighborhood consisted mostly of expensive blocks of flats interspersed with the occasional single family dwelling. It was to one of those that Moran took him, not even bothering with the gun once they left the car parked in front of the sumptuous brick house. Newer, built less than ten years ago, only recently changed occupants – within the past two months, possibly three but no more than that.

Sherlock wondered grimly what coercive methods had been used by Moriarty to force out the previous tenants.

He put such trivial thoughts out of his mind as Moran jogged up the three front steps, slipped a key into the lock and pushed the door open with a mocking half-sketched bow. "After you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock preceded him into an empty, echoing entranceway. Judging by the acoustics as well as what he could see, the entire ground floor was empty of furnishings. Only the curtains hanging on the front windows did anything to muffle the sounds of their feet as they crossed the marble floor. Moran had closed the door behind them, not bothering to lock it as he pocketed the key and indicated the stairs to his unwilling "guest."

Sherlock made his way to the top of the stairs, turned left when Moran instructed him to, opened the third door on the left when further instructed to...

...and came to a dead halt as he saw Jim Moriarty, standing in the middle of the room, cradling a baby in his arms.

There was a sparkle of malicious amusement in Jim's eyes as he said, "Well, hello, Daddy Holmes! Took you long enough! Wanna hold him?" He made a movement as if to hand the baby to Sherlock, only to bring him closer to his chest as his mouth stretched into a mocking grin. "Too bad! This is as close as you're ever gonna get, Sherlock. May as well say your hellos and good-byes right now!"

It took everything he had to keep from launching himself at the maniac holding his son; only the sure knowledge that Moran would shoot him if he tried anything stopped him. Dead, he could do nothing for his son.

"So," Moriarty said as he began to stroll around the empty master suite, "how's our little Molls doing, hmm? Ambulance get there in time? Oh, sorry, I guess you wouldn't know since you left before they made into the building."

"John was with her," Sherlock replied when it seemed Moriarty was actually expecting some kind of response from him. "As you well know."

Moriarty nodded. "Oh, yes, of course your little pet came with you. We watched, Seb and I, as you dashed inside in heroic fashion, your coat flaring behind you – you do like the drama of your wardrobe, don't you? – and him hard on your heels, scurrying along to keep up. Very entertaining, wasn't it, Seb?"

The other man grunted, then reached out and prodded Sherlock with the barrel of his gun. "Go on, into the room," he ordered.

Sherlock obeyed, moving into the center of the room where Moriarty had formerly been standing. The other man had circled closer to the door; with an adroit movement, he handed the baby off to Moran and took possession of his gun, leveling it at Sherlock's chest. "Say good-bye, Sherlock," he said softly. "Time for Baby Hooper-Holmes to meet his new family."

Sherlock must have made some move, betrayed his surprise at those words, because Moriarty smirked and rocked up on his toes. "What, did you think I was going to keep the brat?" Moriarty waved one hand in the air dismissively as Sherlock watched Moran carrying his son out the door and down the hall. "Like I said, Sherlock, I'm doing you – doing us all, really – a favor. Your kid will be safe somewhere out of your reach – America, Australia, South Africa, who knows? But with a family that will actually know how to raise a child. Leaving you free to do what you do best...come out and play whenever I'm bored."

Sherlock carefully folded his hands behind his back. "And what if I'm tired of playing, Jim?" he asked softly. "What if everyone's tired of playing your games?"

The other man shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Cause the games don't end till I say they do." His grin was wide and triumphant. "This game, however, is over. And guess, what Sherlock. I won."

"Wrong, Moriarty." Sherlock's voice was an arctic freeze. "You lost."

Then he very deliberately unbuttoned his jacket, never removing his eyes from those of his adversary, whose smile had faltered into a puzzled frown as Sherlock moved his fingers to his shirt and began undoing those buttons as well.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow at this apparent striptease. "What, you think if you offer yourself to me I'll be so overcome with gratitude that I'll let your brat go, tell Moran to send him home to Molly and let them live happily ever after?" He shook his head in an exaggerated fashion. "Sorry, luv, but you're really not my type."

"Nor are you mine," Sherlock replied, voice calm, as he pulled his unbuttoned shirt open wide enough for Moran to see the wire taped to his chest. "Sorry, luv, but I hope you're not too disappointed; I decided it was time to change the rules since yours were becoming so...predictable."

"NO!" Moriarty screamed, glaring at Sherlock. "You don't get to change the rules!" He tapped the gun on his own chest. "It's MY game, Sherlock, not yours!"

Sherlock ignored him, speaking directly to the microphone taped to his chest. "Tell me he's safe."

Right on cue, his mobile rang. Two rings, then silence. Sherlock smiled at Moriarty, a tight smile with a hint of triumph to it, but more weariness. "Give it up, dear Jim," he said. "It's over." He didn't bother explaining that the two rings were Lestrade's signal that Hamish was safe and Moran in custody; even as agitated as he currently was, Moriarty was more than capable of figuring that much out for himself. "There'll be no jury to intimidate this time, no gun loaded with blanks to fake your death with. This time you've lost, and quite spectacularly, I might add."

Moriarty's eyes were wild as he spun around in a tight circle, as if looking for a way out. As if the door wasn't wide open, the windows easily accessible. "No," he muttered, more quietly this time. He ran a hand through his hair, the gun now pointing toward the floor in his other hand. "No, this isn't...no," he repeated, sounding frustrated, even bewildered, rather than angry. "This isn't how it plays out, Sherlock. You don't get to change the rules, to cheat like this. You're on the side of the fucking angels, remember?" He stopped moving finally, turning once again to stare at his adversary.

Sherlock shrugged. "But I'm not one of them, am I? And even if I was," he added, his voice low and intense as he finally allowed his fury at this man show, "I would have to be a fucking _saint_ to let you get away with hurting Molly the way you did."

With no further warning, he lunged forward, taking advantage of his height and reach advantage to slam Moriarty up against the wall, twisting his wrist, grimly determined to get the weapon away from him. They struggled; Moriarty was able to keep his hold on the gun, although only barely, long enough to turn himself so that he and Sherlock were face to face. He laughed, wrenching the gun so that it rested between them...

...and pulled the trigger.


	4. Last Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions galore, and Moriarty's penchant for planning ahead rears its ugly head.

Molly woke up to a fuzzy mind and a sense that something was wrong, something had happened, but no clear memory as to what it could be. She blinked and gazed blearily around the room, trying to figure out where she was. 

The soft beep of a hospital monitor caught her attention; she stared at it until it came into focus, belatedly noticing the IV attached to the back of her hand and the monitors attached to her chest and arms. 

Everything came back to her in a rush; the kidnapping, the labor pains, giving birth in that formerly pristine, impersonal flat where she was being held, the sight of her son as Moriarty held him and his thug Moran cut the cord...

She screamed, hands scrabbling to remove the wires attached to her body, but before she could rip out the IV and heave herself out of bed hands were on her, holding her down, voices gabbling unintelligibly as she called out for her son, for Sherlock, for John...

John. Suddenly John was right there in front of her, carefully holding a small bundle in his arms, begging her to calm down. 

But it wasn't his words that did the trick, it was the thin sound of a baby's wails that finally penetrated her haze of panic, and her eyes zeroed in on the small bundle that she now noticed was squirming as John leaned over her. Seeing that she'd finally come out of her panic, he turned the bundle, revealing the squalling face of her son. “Hey, Molly, I think somebody's been missing you, yeah?”

She reached out with trembling arms, allowing John to lay her angry, red-faced son in her arms. She rocked him, moving almost instinctively, crooning a wordless tune as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “Oh, John, thank you,” she managed to gasp out, unable to tear her eyes away from her son's precious face, listening with half an ear as John assured her he was fine, healthy and unharmed by his temporary sojourn in the company of murderers. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut so there was no telling their color, but his lips held a very familiar Cupid's bow shape and his fisted fingers were long and elegant and there was no mistaking the mop of dark curls he already sported; Hamish Hooper-Holmes was very much his father's son.

His father...with trembling lips, Molly finally tore he gaze away from the miracle in her arms – the miracle that was finally calming down and falling asleep, poor little mite that she'd so rudely awakened from his nap – and asked John the question that had arisen once concerns about her son could be set aside. “John, where's...is he...”

The sound of a commotion from the direction of her room's closed door interrupted her before she could find the right words to ask, and all eyes turned as the door was shoved open and a tall figure stormed into the room, one arm in a sling and the other flapping irritably at the police and medical staff clustered behind him. “I'm fine, I'll give my statement later, if you don't mind I'd rather like to see how my fiancee and our son are doing!”

Then he turned and glared at the other people Molly was dimly aware of in her room – more medical staff, she guessed, although she only had eyes for him.

Sherlock. Alive and well and in public. She drank in the sight of him, so sorely missed, and managed a tiny, disbelieving smile as John quietly shooed the others out of her room, giving the new family some privacy. He paused on the way out, murmuring something to Sherlock, who nodded without once removing his gaze from Molly's face. Then John was gone and they were alone and it was the single most wonderful moment in Molly's life, ever.

Without a single wasted movement Sherlock pulled a chair over with his good hand, set it as close to the head of her hospital bed as he could manage, and sat down in it. He wasn't wearing a coat, was clad only in dress slacks and a dark grey shirt, the sleeve on the injured arm rolled up, the other buttoned neatly. His face looked pale and drawn, but he was smiling and so she smiled back at him, reaching up to glide her fingers along his cheek and chin, pressing them lightly against his lips.

He pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then carefully moved her hand back so she was once again cradling their son with both arms. “How is he?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

“Brilliant, beautiful, he's perfect,” she replied, brow furrowing as she stared pointedly at his injured arm. “What happened?” She tensed unconsciously as the thought of Moriarty once again coming after her or her son. “Is he...”

“Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock replied, his voice once again under control, dry and clipped and as even as if he were reading off the weather report from his laptop. “Died of massive blood loss in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. And Moran is in custody.” A satisfied smile hovered about his lips as he finished his bare-facts reporting. 

“Sherlock, your arm –?” 

He glanced down at himself with an expression of faint surprise, as if he'd completely forgotten about his injury. “Oh, that. There was a bit of a tussle for Moriarty's gun after Lestrade and his men had taken Moran into custody and retrieved our son.” He managed a one-shouldered shrug as his smile turned self-deprecating. “I'm afraid he winged me. Nothing to worry about.”

Molly opened her mouth to object, but he silenced her by leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, and one on their son's head. “I'm fine, Molly. And so is our son. You do realize everyone calls him 'Hamish',” he murmured as he settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “I know you weren't serious but it does seem to suit him, somehow.”

She smiled, willing to let him change the subject – but only for the moment. “Yes,” she agreed, “I suppose it does.” She leaned back a bit – unable to bite back another smile as Sherlock reached up and awkwardly adjusted her pillows for her with one hand – then said: “Tell me?”

And he did. How Moriarty had shot himself, dying in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. How Moran had been taken into custody after handing Hamish off to what he believed was the nanny for the family Moriarty had found to adopt their son.

“I must say, a nanny's uniform suits Sergeant Donovan rather well,” he couldn't resist adding at that point, but Molly hushed him by holding their sleeping son up for him to kiss, which distraction he accepted with a degree of agreeableness she'd never have credited him with in the past.

They talked for a few more minutes, until Hamish began to fuss again, rooting against Molly's chest in a way that told her exactly what his discomfort was due to. “Sherlock, would you mind getting the nurse? I might need a bit of help with this.” She blushed a bit and indicated her chest.

Sherlock's smile vanished as if erased, and his eyes shifted away from hers. Molly tensed, knowing that something was wrong but unable to discern what it might be. “What is it, Sherlock?” she demanded, opting for the direct approach. “Tell me.”

And he did, with a great deal of reluctance, but answering every question she had to the best of his ability. And when he finished, fingers resting gently on their son's head and his face wearing an expression of sadness she'd never seen on it before, she couldn't help the tears the flowed down her cheeks. But when he tried to offer up some clumsy form of comfort, she shook her head. “No,” she said, the word coming out sharper than she'd intended. “It's not...just, don't. It's just me feeling sorry for myself, when the important thing is that our son is alive and well. So if you'll just...just fetch the nurse, or John, or someone to bring a b-bottle...”

Her voice failed her at that point, head dipping down in an effort to keep the tears from dripping onto her son's head. Without another word, Sherlock rose to his feet and did as she'd asked him to.

Jim Moriarty had left them one last, very unwelcome surprise, planning for a moment he'd never intended to allow to happen – the reunion between Molly and her son.

She hoped he burned in hell for everything he'd put them through, but there was no denying the truth.

In spite of all their efforts, Moriarty had gotten the last laugh.


	5. Together

_Two Months Later_

“Is he asleep?”

Molly smiled at Sherlock as he peeked into the room, his voice hushed as his gaze settled on Molly and their son, who had eventually been named Robert after Molly’s father, with Hamish as his second name. She was in the rocking chair, Rob’s bottle on the floor next to her. “Almost,” she replied, her voice just as hushed. “Want to put him in his cot while I take care of this?” She glanced down at the bottle, and Sherlock didn't miss the look of pain in her eyes at the sight.

Their son had to be bottle fed because of the cocktail of toxins Moriarty had forced into Molly's body after she'd given birth in the flat where she'd been held captive. Her immune system was strong enough to deal with it even after nearly hemorrhaging to death, but Rob's was not – and the toxins were designed to be absorbed into more than just Molly's bloodstream. It had taken nearly a month for the poisons to be completely flushed from her system, and even afterwards her doctor had advised her it would be best if they took no chances and continued to bottle feed Rob. Molly had been devastated by the news, at least at first, when her hormones were still quite out of balance so close to their son’s birth, but eventually she’d accepted that at least Moriarty hadn’t directly harmed their son when he had him at his mercy.

It wasn't the worst thing that bastard could have done to them, but he'd driven the knife home with precision, homing in on Molly's fears that she would somehow fail at motherhood. And breastfeeding, for her, was one of the most important bonding aspects between mother and child. Yes, it wasn't the worst thing he could have – or had – done, but it was a cruelty Molly didn't deserve.

These thoughts flashed through Sherlock's mind in the few seconds it took him to enter the room and lift his sleeping son from Molly's arms. He spared a moment to press a kiss to her forehead, silent reassurance that no one thought any less of her because Rob drank formula from a bottle, then turned his attention to the tiny form nestled so trustingly in his arms.

The poor child had hardly been granted an auspicious start in life, he reflected as he carried him to the cot he'd started sleeping in two weeks previous, but both his parents had vowed to ensure the rest of it went as smoothly as possible. No more kidnappings, no more attempted poisonings or near-death experiences for Robert Hamish Hooper-Holmes. Just the normal things all children endured and lived to tell about, or Molly and Sherlock would both die trying.

Rob pulled a bit of a face as Sherlock settled him more comfortably in his arms, mouth working as he fought sleep the way he always did after being fed. However, his father was having no nonsense tonight, and murmured as much to his son as he placed him on his side in the cot, covering him with the green crocheted blanket Mrs. Hudson had made for him when he was still an unknown quantity inside his mother's body.

After Rob had settled down to sleep, Sherlock turned to see that Molly had risen from the rocker and was now standing by his side, the bottle clenched tightly in one hand as she looked down at their sleeping son. Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him as the music from the mobile wound down into silence.

Only then did they leave the nursery that had once been John's room. The good doctor had moved into the renovated basement flat in order to give the new family some privacy. Now that Sherlock was back from the dead, his reputation restored, the two of them were once again taking on cases, although the in between times were far less fraught than they had been since Sherlock's bouts of boredom were more likely to involve explaining the importance of recognizing different types of tobacco ash to Rob than shooting the walls of the flat.

Although he once would have believed that John's removal from the flat would be a disruption to his routine, Sherlock found himself appreciating the move now that he had Molly and Rob in his life. John was and always would be his best friend, the first person Sherlock had allowed through the maze of ice and sarcasm he'd erected to protect the heart he could now freely admit to owning, but Molly and Rob were that heart.

Rob was two months old. James Moriarty was dead, and Sebastian Moran was in prison for the rest of his life. Molly and Rob, far from being the distractions Sherlock had once feared a family would be, kept him centered, kept him focused and on goal when on a case.

He had something to come home to at the end of the day, something even more important than friendship.

And tonight, he and Molly were going to make love for the first time since the night Rob was conceived.

Nothing had been said aloud; no plans had been made, no details discussed, but the look she had given him when he’d casually commented on how well their son was now sleeping through the night had spoken volumes.

She’d had her six-week postpartum examination two weeks ago, and had been given the all clear for sex by her gynecologist. She’d mentioned that fact to him, although her casualness at the time had been very clearly feigned; surely he’d made himself clear, that night he’d returned to find out they’d conceived a child together, that he wanted to be with her? But before they could discuss it he’d been called away on a case that had kept him busy off and on for the next two weeks, and she hadn’t brought the subject up again, obviously leaving it up to him to make the next move.

Tonight would be his first night back in the flat, sleeping in the bed they shared.

Tonight would be the night he would (hopefully) lay to rest any lingering doubts Molly still harbored as regards to his feelings for her.

oOo

Molly slipped into her prettiest nightgown, the green one with the white lace edging the neckline and cap sleeves. She’d bathed and washed her hair after dinner, even shaving her legs for the first time in what felt like ages but had actually been closer to six months. She’d brushed her teeth and examined her face in the mirror with a critical eye; she still retained a bit of baby weight, although thankfully she was one of those lucky women whose bodies mostly bounced back with little effort. Her stomach wasn’t exactly flat and firm, but it was close; those Pilates classes her friend Mary had recommended had certainly helped. She’d already decided to keep them up even after she’d gotten to a shape she was willing to live with, simply because of the way the exercise made her feel.

She was also going to keep up with the defensive training she’d begun only two weeks ago, when Sherlock and John had been so busy with that case. Knowing how to defend herself better had become something of an obsession, but who could blame her, after being kidnapped by a madman and having her child stolen from her immediately after birth?

“Molly, please, put him from your mind. He’s dead, he’ll never hurt you – hurt any of us – ever again.”

She smiled to herself as she felt Sherlock’s hands come to rest on her shoulders, as she heard the comforting baritone of his voice so close to her ear. He’d slipped into their bedroom while she was lost in her thoughts, so typical of him. Just as it was so typical of him to understand the way her thoughts were trending just by reading her body language and the expression on her face.

She didn’t turn to face him, just relaxed against him, feeling his arms slip around her body and hold her close. She loved him so much, had for so very long, that even now, even with their son sleeping just upstairs with a baby monitor to alert them to any slightest sound from his room, she still found it hard to believe that Sherlock cared so deeply for her. 

He pressed the lightest of kisses on the side of her neck, and her skin erupted in goose pimples. His hands glided down her arms, touching the bumpy flesh, and she shivered. He sucked gently at the flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and she shivered again and let out a soft moan. He took her hand and tugged gently, leading her over to the bed they’d shared for the past two months – well, whenever he was of a mind to sleep and actually home, of course. Which actually amounted to closer to…

“Thirty-seven nights. Tonight will be thirty-eight. Not that I’m counting.” Molly gave Sherlock a mock-glare for yet again managing to read her mind, and he took that opportunity to lower his head and lay a kiss on her lips that was nowhere near as gentle as his touches had been this evening. Oh no, this was Sherlock sharp and demanding and taking what he wanted, no permission sought or asked.

Molly loved it. She opened her mouth beneath his when he swiped his tongue along her lower lip, held him tightly against her body when his arms encircled her waist, rested her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes and gave in to every wordless demand he made.

oOo

Good. As anticipated, his abrupt transition from gentle to demanding had been just what Molly needed to jolt her out of her thoughts and place her exactly where he both wanted and needed her to be: firmly in the moment. With him. Determined to keep her there, he increased his attentions, nipping lightly at her ear and neck, sucking a mark into the flesh just above her collarbone, listening complacently as she moaned and gasped, her body squirming against his as he lowered her to the bed.

Like Molly, he'd already bathed and shaved, brushed his teeth and changed into a pair of pyjamas he'd purchased shortly after moving back into the flat. They were a dark blue, nearly navy, and he knew Molly liked them very much. Tonight, however, he was more interested in her reaction to his removal of them rather than to his wearing them, just as he was more interested in seeing her without her (very pretty, she did well in that shade of green) nightgown.

His own interest in their first sexual encounter since Rob had been born (and their first together in this flat rather than her old one) must be abundantly clear to her by now, and not simply because of their very satisfactory kisses. His cock (it still seemed odd to refer to that particular body part by so vulgar a word but as he recalled, vulgarities whispered in Molly's ear went a long way toward driving her to her pleasure) was as hard as the proverbial steel rod, and he could feel the dampness at her core that told him how ready she was as well.

Still, he paused before removing her nightgown (one simple pull and off it would go over her head, he thought approvingly) and gazed down at her, taking in her flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips. “Molly, if you're not ready for us to resume our sexual relationship, now would be the best time to let me know.”

She dimpled and blushed a deeper red as she reached up and brushed her hands through his thoroughly tousled curls. “Sherlock, before they released me from hospital I had them put in a new birth control implant,” she said. “And I checked the strings myself when I was in the bathroom.” The dimples deepened as she added, widening her eyes innocently: “You can check it yourself, if you'd like. You know, just to be...sure.”

He knew he was wearing what would surely be characterized as a wolfish grin as he replied: “Well, yes, of course, one shouldn't leave such things to chance these days.”

Good. Very, very good. Molly was not only responding to him sexually but was also able to make what was clearly a joke about what Moriarty had done to her eleven months and four days ago.

Sherlock still could not fathom why Moriarty had gone to such pains to ensure that Molly would be able to conceive a child, then turn around nine months later and steal that child away from her. Or rather, he could fathom it if he wished to. But since Moriarty was well and truly dead, no coming back from it this time, the Sherlock was free to refuse to try and follow the twisting pathways into the morass that had been his enemy's mind.

Besides, he'd just gone to great lengths to get Molly to stop thinking about Moriarty; the least he owed her was to be just as present in the moment as she now was.

With that, he began kissing his way down her body, not quite avoiding her breasts but holding back a bit, not wanting to bring her attention back to that dark place, but she surprised him again by huffing out: “Honestly, Sherlock, they're not made of glass, you know! You can bloody well suck on them if you want to!”

He gave her his best raised-eyebrow look of disapproval. “Such language, Dr. Hooper,” he murmured, then dove down and did exactly as she'd admonished him to, with a great deal of enthusiasm. Her breasts were slightly larger now, even after her milk had dried up – oh, that had been a very trying day, it was a good thing John had warned him how emotional that event was going to make her else he might have fled in panic – and firmer as well. She'd gone up a cup size and, although he had absolutely no quarrel with the way they had been, he quite enjoyed having a bit more of them to play with now.

After he'd lavished a precisely calculated equal amount of attention to both breasts (Molly's hands tugging on his hair and digging into his scalp the entire time, which only added to his enjoyment), he continued his downward meanderings, pressing open-mouthed kisses alternated with swipes of his tongue to her ribs, her waist, her still slightly-soft belly, including her navel, which had gone very shallow, she'd told him, but never actually popped into an outie the way some women's did. 

He paused with his mouth on her left hip, his fingers wrapped around her buttocks, knuckles pressing into the mattress, then eased them beneath her thighs and slowly, carefully raised her legs until she was lying with her feet on the bed, knees raised and slightly splayed. “Sherlock, you don't actually have to do a gynecological exam, you know,” she murmured, with a definite hint of laughter in her voice.

He raised his head and gave her his sternest look. “Molly, you advised me to check and I can assure you, this will be the most thorough – and, I might had, most pleasurable – examination you will have ever been subjected to.”

Then he lowered his head, carefully opened her with his thumbs, and set to work demonstrating that eleven months and four days of abstinence hadn't diminished his skills even the smallest bit.

oOo

Molly gasped as Sherlock swiped his tongue along the inner folds of her labia, then gasped again when he sucked gently on her clitoris. Oh, God, the things that man could do with his mouth...sinful, that's what it was. Absolutely, positively sinful.

And God had she missed this. Masturbating was all well and good, but it had been months since she'd been remotely interested in touching herself – and then having a baby, of course, tended to turn that part of her body from a source of pleasure to a...well, not a source of pain, exactly, but not someplace she wanted anyone touching that wasn't a doctor, at least.

But now, two months after Rob's birth, she felt more than ready for this. She moaned as Sherlock's tongue set to work in earnest, stroking her, teasing her, and – oh, God! – then his fingers sliding inside her, moving in languid strokes, helping bring her closer and closer to...oh, not so soon, not so soon, she wanted this moment to last, wanted to put it off a bit longer...

Impossible. She came with a loud moan, Sherlock's name whispered in worshipful tones, fingers digging into his head (oops, better let him go, the poor man was bound to have bruises if not scratches judging by how tightly she'd been holding him), shuddering as her orgasm rolled over her.

Sherlock moved up to lie next to her, holding her gently as she continued to gasp and shiver through the aftershocks, his lips on her ear, the side of her neck, her cheek when she turned enough to semi-face him. “So,” he said, lips quirked in a half-smile. “Good, then?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a cheeky grin. “A bit.” Then she turned fully in his embrace, sliding her leg over his hip and rubbing her foot along his thigh in a very distracting manner. “So how can we make it good for you, too, hmm?”

“Well,” he replied, his voice a bit huskier than normal, “that's certainly a...very good start.” He sucked in a breath as she slid one hand down to grasp his erection. “And that,” he added in strangled tones, “is even better.”

She slipped her right arm, which had been resting beneath her pillow, under his head, wriggling a bit until they were both comfortably situated – and then wriggling a bit more as he planted his right hand on her hip, hauling her close enough rub himself against her still-damp center, curling the other hand around her neck and pressing his forehead against hers. “Molly,” he moaned, if you don't let me...if you don't intend to...”

His words degenerated into a series of gasps and moans as she finally took pity on him and raised herself up just enough for him to finally slide deep, deep inside her. She gasped and dug her fingers into his shoulder, but when he started to pull back out she opened her eyes (when had she shut her eyes, why didn't she remember shutting her eyes) and hissed at him: “Sherlock Holmes! Don't you fucking dare! You know it's just that it's been a while, just give me a second for Christ's sake!”

Oh, my. Apparently dirty talk worked on him as well as it did on her, if the sudden darkening of his eyes and clenching of his own fingers against her flesh were anything to go by. Emboldened by his reaction, Molly brushed her lips against his ear and breathed: “So how do you like it, Sherlock? Feeling me all hot and tight and wet around you....mmph!”

He'd turned his head and plunged his tongue into her mouth, at the same time thrusting his hips against hers. It burned, but only a bit and only for a moment, then all the good feelings she'd been missing since Sherlock had last visited her as “Derek Jacobs” came rushing to the fore and then there was no more thinking, just physical sensation, a growing tension, the slip and slide of two bodies joined together, and then a moment of pure bliss, during which she was certain she growled out some truly filthy words as well as several repetitions of Sherlock's name.

“God, I love you,” she gasped out as she started coming down from the orgasmic high – her second of the night – and that did it, pushed him right over the edge, turned him into as incoherent a wet mess as she had just been.

But not nearly as soppy a mess as she turned into when he whispered in her ear: “You know what, Molly, I do believe I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue, but I hope everyone has enjoyed this story. :)


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around for the end of this little saga. Hope you enjoyed the ride!

“Sherlock,” Molly murmured as he nuzzled her neck and wrapped his lean form around hers, “why did you call me your fiancee when we were in hospital?”

She knew she sounded sleepy and although that was, indeed, how she felt, the question had percolated into the forefront of her mind and from there through her lips. Her timing, as always, was awful; this moment was supposed to be about basking in the afterglow, not bringing up potentially prickly subjects. Certainly not right after Sherlock had actually said the “L” word to her for the very first time.

“Because we're going to be married eventually and I told you when we first began this relationship that I categorically refuse to be referred to as your 'boyfriend',” was Sherlock's prompt – and equally sleepy-sounding – response. “It seemed the expedient way to describe our relationship without going into tedious detail.”

“You think we're – that we're going to be...married? Eventually?” she repeated, her own sleepiness dropping away; this night just kept getting better and better! She turned in his embrace, ignoring his disgruntled huff as she pulled back enough to get a good look at his face, to try and read his expression the way he always managed to read hers. “Why? Is it because of Rob? Because you know I don't expect...”

He silenced her with a kiss. “No, it's not because of Rob,” he replied. “Not entirely, anyway. It's because of you and me, Molly. As Sigmund Freud once put it, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. You love me, I realized when Moriarty took you that I loved you as well, and as far as Rob is concerned, well, that's simply the icing on the cake.” He smirked. “The wedding cake, as it were. In my mind, it's been a matter of 'when' rather than 'if' for a long time, Molly,” he added, the smirk softening into a tender smile.

Her own grin was wide enough to encompass the world, she thought, but she tried to temper it into a stern glance. “Well, you might want to think about actually proposing sometime, then,” she said, succeeding – mostly in keeping her tone serious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled her closer. “Fine,” he huffed. “Molly Kathleen Elizabeth Hooper, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

She pretended to consider the question, pursing her lips and emitting a thoughtful “Hmmmm,” before answering. “Weelll, I dunno, it might just be the endorphins talking. We did just have sex for the first time in...”

“Eleven months, four days,” Sherlock interrupted her. “Rather spectacular sex at that, Dr. Hooper. I fail to see your point; you know that I do not allow sentiment to cloud my judgment no matter what the circumstances.”

Molly arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Even when I do this?” One hand reached below the covers and wrapped itself firmly around a certain part of his anatomy, stroking it's semi-erect form into hardness.

“That,” Sherlock said in a somewhat strangled voice, “is not fair.”

“Hmm, I suppose not,” she agreed placidly. “And it's probably even less fair if I do this...” Moving before he could react, she slid down beneath the covers and set to work proving Sherlock's words wrong – much to their mutual enjoyment. Then of course he had to return the favor, leading to her squealing and squirming and calling out his name almost loud enough to wake the baby – who very fortunately decided to keep sleeping no matter how annoying his parents were being.

And when they'd settled back into basking in the (doubly enjoyable) afterglow, she agreed that yes, even if it was the endorphins speaking, she would love to become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. After all, she added before they fell asleep in one another's arms, it was about bloody time he made an honest woman of her.


End file.
